Two halves of a cracked whole
by Gray Wings
Summary: Erik walks away twice.
1. Hear(t)

Two conversations. The same hearbreak in two different spaces.

**X Men and associated characters belong to Marvel**

* * *

**_Hear(t)_**

He steals hearts. With a smile so bright, lips so red – stained in blood, in love – yes, he does. He pries them out and eats them whole even as he holds your hand, eyes innocent skies empty of clouds' shadows.

Who is the monster between us, Charles?

"You smell of iron," his breath, a soft exhale against my neck. _You smell of blood_.

"It's me." A lie, once – when death was deplorable, when there was a difference between evil and weakness. Everything moves in shades of blood, of iron now, and my hands know but a single purpose.

_Where is the goodness you saw, Charles? How deep did you dig, how many corpses did you unearth to find it?_

Charles is silent. His hands slide down my arms; soft fingers intertwine with mine and I let him, let myself enjoy a fleeting comfort from someone that could never – _should never_ – understand. A fierce, dizzying possessiveness has me smiling wide, ugly: _Oh, but you are a dangerous man, Charles Xavier._

"Is it." His lips barely move, gentle pressure against my shoulder. His chest is pressed against my back, solid and sure, and I almost lean against him. Instead, I turn so I can see him, put a slice of sky between us.

(It is cold, colder with the absence of his obtrusive warmth, and _really, Erik, are you so easy to bind? A smile, a caring touch, and you bare your neck?_)

"This will not work, Charles." _Not on me; let me go._ "You cannot fight malice with kind words."

That smile, and his fingers tighten, pull my hands behind him. I am left gripping his waist, flesh rising gently with his breath. His own arms are a weight against my neck, pulling me closer, closer until I rest against his forehead, startled. Scared.

"Have you tried?" his smile ghosts against my jaw; in my mind, I see it touch the hard line of my lips and wonder whose desire painted the image. If it matters.

_A dangerous man._

"No." Gently, I pull his arms away, pull myself from him. He allows it, but his eyes do not leave mine, his thoughts still linger just behind the wall he taught me build to keep others out.

_You are not alone. Erik, you are not alone, and it makes you stronger. Caring makes you stronger. Loving-_

"Not me." I interrupt, because I cannot hear it, because I already feel it a lie. "Not me, Charles."

My steps are loud in this empty house, this beautiful prison. Charles does not try to stop me (_I can_, he had said, sweet arrogance and hope, _But I won't_. And he still does not, just like I would never—). When he speaks, it is out loud and brittle, wielding the blade of his kindness with an expertise, honesty that would have most stumble in a rush to turn around, get back, hold him, _kiss him-_

"Erik."

-but I am safe. Because he steals hearts, yes, but mine is long gone, rotting in an unmarked grave many lands over around the rust of an iron bullet.

"Good night, Charles."

The door remains open behind me, but I know – he knows – that I am never coming back.


	2. Winter

_**Winter**_

His kiss is cold.

It is the rain, I think and open my lips, breathe warmth into him. It is the frosty fog, the lonely autumn morning.

But there is borrowed cold in my mind, too, and that I cannot explain away.

So I cover his lips, his naked hands beneath mine, and whisper love in the shadows clinging to his thoughts. I cannot chase the pain away, not completely, but he smiles against me all the same, thankful, unsurprised. And it should not be so, he should not expect this – should not tolerate the numbness eating at his soul from the inside.

_Let me help._

_You are._

But not enough. I am not enough.

And it is a startling, humbling revelation, even if it should not be – how arrogant, presumptuous I have grown. Had Raven not said as much? Have my failures not stared me in the face often enough?

_It is nothing that can be given, Charles. It must be taken, desired._ The kiss breaks, grown cold too, and he tries to step back. I keep him to me, fingers twisted in his shirt, low at his back – I cannot let him go. Not yet.

_And do you not want it? _Desperate; how can a thought hold so much desperation? _Do you not desire peace, my friend?_

_Yes_. And oh, he breaks away too, gentle but determined. Wind rushes between us, across the grounds of the Academy and away with a lonely howl. _But not for me._

_Not for me, Charles._

I close my eyes and stare into the darkness there, pretending I do not understand. One day I will have to open them, but for now.

For now, I will chase the cold from his skin.


End file.
